Mister Gray and I
by FreedomValentine
Summary: A retelling of the popular Fifty Shades story with the simpering idiot known as the protagonist in the original (oh, the irony!) replaced by a relatively intelligent girl who is at least capable of thinking for herself. Note on Chapter 3: I thought Jose had potential but I don't know how to put diacritics, so I changed his name. Also, Kate got boring.
1. First Meeting

My name is Anastasia Steele. Most people just call me Ana. I also have a middle name- Rose- which I don't usually acknowledge. My mother was drunk when she named me- and extremely so. I'm not sure why I'm even mentioning this now. Maybe it will come in handy later on.

I'm in my last year of university as a Literature student. I'm not a very hard-working person. I don't enjoy projects or incessant cramming, and I happen to like reading books and being just a little pretentious. It's fun. It really is, especially when people think you really have fallen in love with a poet's rhyme scheme so madly. Idiots…

At the moment, I'm stuck in some nonsensical task my friend and house mate cum-landlady chickened out of because she was sick. Her name is Katharine. You don't know this, but I'm standing in front of a mirror at the moment. Why am I introducing myself and my hot best friend now? I don't know. I just felt like it, I suppose. Anyway, Kate's a sensible child most of the time and very worldly. She understands people very easily, and she's harmless. Also, her illness is a lie. She does that every time she gets it on with a boy and gets hot and bothered and then gets cock blocked.

I'm sorry there isn't a more polite word for such a nasty feeling. She also has fabulously civilised hair. It's very nice and straight, even when she's been having hot, loud sex all night. I can hear her sometimes.

It's not that my hair isn't beautiful either. Oh, no. On the contrary, I think I have gorgeous hair. It's got a proper mahogany colour, as if I dyed it very carefully, and it is naturally slightly wavy and very well-mannered. This trait, unfortunately, is becoming my undoing now.

You see, invisible interlocutor of mine, this task that I have somehow gotten pulled into involves an interview with a school paper or magazine or something that my 'sick' friend started three years ago. Our university, although prestigious, is a shithole when it comes to savvy things like campus publications. Katharine, or Kate as she likes to be called, thought she should do a favour to the school and get one started. Now that we were about to graduate and pack off, she thought of ending her tenure as founder and editor with a bit of a limp bang.

Hah. Do you get it? Limp bang. I am such a laugh.

She arranged this interview, in any case, with a pompous young man who has been pouring money into the university's research funds for no reason and I thought it would be a great joke if I turned up at his office like an oblivious Mary Sue, unkempt and unaware of what cosmetics or even grooming means. I would, more importantly, also embarrass Kate this way. Apparently, she had taken six months to get this one and only day. Just imagine that. This exclusive interview turned into a farce by the sleek blonde lady replacing herself with a stupid, ugly wallflower. That should serve you right, I remark to myself, for making such a big deal out of it. The six-month excuse was definitely a lie. If he had agreed to a menial school publication interview, he must be very free, surely. Oh well…

I haven't washed my hair for two weeks in preparation. That's right. She has been crying in bed for her tease of a boyfriend for an entire fortnight. My clothes are clean, at least- but my hair just won't behave! I pull my brush upwards towards the roots, hoping for just a few more tangles here and there. Suddenly, I want to eat some fried chicken.

"Thank you so much, Annie."

Kate has emerged from her room, a tub of ice cream from her mini fridge in hand. I want to hold her against the wall and kiss her all of a sudden, but I'm still too annoyed to entertain this thought more. If you're well enough to walk around and eat ice cream, I want to snap back instead, you can just as well do your interview yourself.

But you don't do that, do you?

Then again, I wouldn't bother doing this for her if she wasn't nearly the uke to my seme.

As I leave the house, I wonder if I should add something else to my character. An overbite, perhaps, or an underbite... but that would make my jaws hurt. Of course, I could just bite my lip. Maybe I'll do that. I'll bite my lower lip once in a while.

The road to my interviewee's office is long and uneventful, and I almost fall asleep three times. I should have asked somebody else to drive me instead. I hate this man already. Half a day of my life is gone travelling across a good part of the country just to reach him. How about a little compromise and meet somewhere nice and quiet instead? Maybe somewhere nearer to my place!

When I reach the office building, however, I begin to appreciate the boredom of the journey immediately. It is ugly, to say the least. Everything is made of steel or iron and sandstone and marble and... oh, I would kill myself in a week if I had to work here. My respect for the employees of this company grew immensely in that instant I saw the structure. What a waste of good materials in so ugly a showpiece. The architect had either designed it this way as a joke because he hated his client, or because he was genuinely bad at his job. It had better be the first, I mutter in disgust as I enter the building. I am even more disgusted as I read the nameplate of the office.

Gray Enterprise Holdings Inc, I shite you not, my dear listener, is what the company is called. Now, Gray is fine. He has every right to name his business after himself. Enterprise is alright too. That's very typical of company names and I understand that. Put 'holdings' at the back and it starts to become silly. But I can still rationalise this. Hey, maybe Enterprise is actually a reference to the Enterprise of Star Trek fame. That would be nice. I would respect him for such dedication to such a good series- except it's in plural. And 'Inc'? He didn't even use the whole word; it was just an 'I' and then an 'N' and 'C'. You are trying too hard; I want to shout at him before throwing a good punch on his face.

As I receive my visitor's pass and travel up to the top floor, where his office is, I also notice that all of his female employees are blonde. Maybe it's a good thing Kate hadn't come after all. If anybody is going to force themselves on to her, it should be me because of my latent homosexual attraction towards her and for the favour I am in the midst of doing for her. I feel I should report him for workplace discrimination but I can't be bothered to do anything right now. The lift, by the way, or elevator as you may call it, is nothing more than a nicely padded metal box. However, it is also the best part of the place. At least it looks like a lift should, instead of an insult to steampunk.

It's a pity the staff is shallow and has no concept of service. I sit for about twenty minutes before somebody notices that I have been waiting my turn and offers me a drink. And here's the best part: when they ask what I want, I ask for some green tea... and they hear it as iced water. Cheap bitches...

I wait some more. The water comes, with a single miserable cube floating in tepid tap water. I wonder if I would have received Blue Mountain coffee instead if I had come in looking like myself. Some people go in and out of his office. I have half a mind to barge in and kick him in the ribs and demand my time back. I stand up to do so, when one of the blonde troopers tiptoes towards me and asks me to go in and be graced by his presence.

I am astounded. She really says that. He's not your king, he's your employer. There are other people to fund your bread and butter. Why are these women like this?

Dismissing the thought, I aim carefully for a bump I notice in the carpeting and brush one foot against it, leaning back to execute my somersault. Unfortunately, I don't manage to land as I desired. Instead, our dear Mister Gray manages to catch me halfway through the air and shakily lands me. I have no choice but to play by ear.


	2. Boring Interview

As he helps me up, I realise that he's actually not a bad-looking chap. Old Mister Gray, I mean. He looks alright- slightly better than average. But then I'm suddenly suspicious of the setting. This is too much like a classic Main Lady Mary Sue plot, where the affluent, handsome and slightly older hero enamours an inexperienced nubile.

Nubile suggests a lack of experience already, so I shouldn't have said 'inexperienced'. I'm sorry about that, interlocutor.

The paradigm of our meeting is highly amusing, and I want to laugh. What's even more amusing is that he caught me in almost the same pose that Main Lady Mary Sue is caught in- feet on the ground, back straight on the hero's lower arms and looking straight into his eyes. But I must stay in character, and I resist. There's another thing that bothers me when I first look at him. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something very strange about him.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I nod slowly, eyes wide and mouth open like I have lockjaw. This motion is not entirely part of the act. I'm just as surprised that I landed into such a coincidental position.

The nagging feeling from before stays as we introduce ourselves. Fortunately, I remember my act, and as I sit down to prepare for my farce of a scoop, I fumble with the zip of my bad until my nail breaks. The crack hurts, and I want to howl in my misery until the pain dies down a little. But I am an actress now, and I must keep my stage intact, and I bear with it by biting on my lip hard. I hope to fight fire with fire, and it works a little. I then drop the audio recorder three times in succession. He has probably noticed it was deliberate. It is very obvious. But he says nothing and, as I observe out of the corner of my eye, relaxes on a sofa seat and watches me with interest and a slight confusion. He is a very considerate audience. I take my seat once I have smashed the frame of my darling love Kate's recorder, scratching my scalp frantically. A fortnight without shampoo on an oily scalp is torturous and I am enduring everything for this act, and her. Honestly, if that girl does not beg me to whisk her away on her wedding day, I will flip.

"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."

He smiles sympathetically. He has taken the bait! Hah! Why am I excited by such a trivial thing?

As I glance around his room, two options form in my mind about him. Both suggest a strongly contrasting facade and interior. The first is that he is a very nice and misunderstood person, very much like that poor man who was too well endowed on Sex and the City. That's why his office is so boring and plain- it's a cover to his truly colourful personality. The second is that he is gay.

He's very passionate about whatever industry he is involved in. I'm not sure. Kate has, at the very least, offered to do some work that will legitimately make the article hers, and so everything we say is being recorded on my phone and then she will transcribe and edit everything. It's very awkward sitting here and staring at a man, wondering if he is the embodiment of a stereotype homosexual, and so I've taken out a notepad and started doodling the possibilities of what he might truly be. I keep going towards the second option somehow.

It becomes very difficult to resist asking, to just confront. In the first few questions, he mentions repeatedly a solar-powered mobile device and how revolutionary the whole notion is. I am already weak from trying not to burst his bubble. Sorry, I want to stop him and say, but Samsung already pulled off a successful model about three years ago.

That's how I start doodling, in fact, and returning to my two options- to block off my own tirade about his firm's competency being at the level of a student project. This man is nowhere near as naive as the basis of the first option, and I decide he is gay.

I start twitching suddenly. He is so absorbed in talking about research and development and all that jazz, that he does not notice me almost having a spasm. I rock back and forth in my seat, one hand clutched on the arm of my sofa. No, I tell myself, don't do it. Don't be rude to people you've just met. That is not how your parents raised you. You'll hurt his feelings and then you'll have to go home and drink to your death out of guilt. Don't do it. I don't listen to anything I say eventually, and I pop the question, "Are you gay?"

He stops gushing, obviously startled, and stares at me, "What did you just say?"

Indeed, what did I just say? Sweet mother of the puffy heavenly clouds, please come down now and take me away.

I stutter my question a second time. I want my water from outside now- anything to distract me away from his shocked gaze. But there is no water to drink, and there is obviously nothing much to look at instead of his face, and I manage, very fortunately, to give him a sheepish smile.

"Whoa," he exclaims at long last, "where did that come from?"

I can only hope that if he has a trapdoor under my seat that he will make me now fall through at the press of a button, that if he traps in me some strange dungeon in the heart of this abominable building, he does not throw me into an Iron Maiden. That would really hurt, to say the least.

In a faltering voice, I try to save the situation, "i-it's in the question set..."

He stares at me- as he should. What kind of excuse is that? It's in the list of questions, which I have to ask for my interview with you. I want a gun. Somebody please give me a gun. I want to shoot myself now.

And then he smiles very sympathetically, "I understand. It's a little... unsettling to be asked so abruptly... usually, the issue is discussed behind my back. This is very refreshing in contrast."

Why are you so nice, Mister Gray, why? Why can't you flare up and throw me out of your plain office instead of accommodating with me? Why, you damnable gentleman, why?

"Maybe I should take this opportunity to clear the air," he ponders aloud, "don't you think so, Miss..."

"Steele," I reply spontaneously, "Anastasia Steele."

He nods slowly in acknowledgement, "I see... well, Miss Steele, I'm not. I am, on the other hand, very fond of exclusively female companionship."

He sounds very oily just then, and I squirm in my seat. Just hearing it makes me blush, and I think he took it the wrong way too because he looked up at me very... suggestively. My guilt towards him melts instantly. I blink slowly at him.

"I may seem to be a hard nut to crack-and I am," he continues in his sleazy tone, "but underneath all that I am very amiable, very easy to get along with... if you know what I mean, Miss Steele."

"Your employees held very high opinions of you, from what I observed while waiting," I ask, doing my best to keep a level head, "They thought well enough of you to speak very... defensively. If you don't mind, I'd like to know how you do it. How do you instill such... dedication in them?"

Now, as part of my blooming wallflower act, I have to pretend that I am sexually aroused by this oily man. I have no right to say that, though. Look at my scalp! Is he licking his lips? He is licking his lips, the sleazy bastard. No, no, Annie, play along. Keep going wherever you're going. Now he's fingering his mouth. Stop it. For the love of God, please stop before I throw up. I want to cry so badly now. Unfortunately, he keeps talking and I want to stab myself with a pencil now. How the hell do people fall for this cheap ploy? How did his blondie paramilitary stationed in his office get caught by this?

"That's an easy one," he answers with a smirk I'd like to rub out with bleach, "we have a clearly established relationship that everybody does their part to maintain. Besides that, there is a natural anchor, an effective control that keeps discipline. Some people are just born to control, you know."

I have no idea what he means by anything he just said, but I want to run away and hide at home right now. There is something in the last of his words- something very suspicious that throws me off. I manage to keep my façade and I count myself lucky now that I react as if I am shy and infatuated when I panic. Yes, I am a strange person. Deal with it.

I want to hide in my bed and bask in the tree-hugging marvels of Bollywood songs. That's all I want right now and I need it fast. I make an excuse to end the interview and run for the door, almost leaving behind my bag in the process. He helps pick it up and walks me out and I am nearly shaking. Clutching the lanyard around my neck, I smile nervously, "I've had a wonderful time talking to you, Mister Gray. I'll be off now. Goodbye, Mister Gray."

He narrows his eyes at me, the oily look on his face stronger than ever, "I hope we meet again, Ana."

Hang on right there. I didn't say we can be on first-name terms, kiddo, no sir-ree. Who do you think you're calling Ana? What's Ana, anyway? I suddenly remember my friend Rochelle, whom a boy tried to flirt with and called her Roch. I understand her annoyance now. Combing my hair nervously with my fingers, I bring my fringe closer to my eyes. If I look into his face again, I will definitely throw up. I sense his gaze as the doors of the padded metal box close. It is intense and revolting. I also sense the glare of his paramilitary, who have never had the chance to be alone in a room with him for such a duration of time, and I am glad it is all over.

The road back is uneventful in general, but I find it refreshing and relaxing after my ordeal. I am angry that my wallflower act was not successful. In my defence, I was thrown off by the sudden change in his behaviour. I am also annoyed by Kate, for throwing her burden on to me, but also slightly relieved that I had gone in her place. Naive as she was, he might have jumped on her. After minute naps in one or two small traffic jams, I reach our house and I run inside, heading straight for my room. Kate is howling again and, as I see the next morning, finished three more tubs of ice-cream. Her metabolism is really a thing of wonder. As I stare at my computer screen, the bright colours in the film reflected in my own eyes, I recall involuntarily the strange high he had achieved when I started discussing control and I shudder.

I hope I don't see him again, but I do so in a nightmare later that night, licking and stroking his lips again and again, and I wake up each time with a shudder. I hope I never see that sleazy man again.


	3. Renewed Contact

A week has passed. I now realise what a sheltered life I have led until now. All the people I have met so far have been good-natured, considerate individuals whose impressions get better and better every day. My recovering alcoholic mother, for example, surprises me with her perseverance and Penny, the mean little girl next door, has become more and more pleasant towards me. All the boys I've rejected, all five of them, have accepted my opinion of them and become relatively good friends with me. And Kate has been perfection from the beginning. And then… that monstrosity from last Monday destroys my image of this world.

What kind of character change was that, anyway? Was it even possible, to switch from nice business genius to slimy pervert trash-talker? Of course, these two descriptions were not mutually exclusive- still, I wonder, after every nightmare I wake up from... how did that happen? How? And how did I sit through it and let it go on? Regardless of my now regrettable wallflower act...

He must be sick. In the head, I mean. It is the only explanation I have- especially from the look in his eyes. I had seen that look before, the one he had when he started talking about control. It was deranged, but also in denial- and very hard to fully explain. There was an air of pretense, as if he wanted badly to achieve an image, when he spoke about submission. That was the only thing I had not seen in that look previously, when the man three doors away from me was taken away by the police for domestic violence.

That might also explain the nightmares. I keep seeing myself being chased through desolate landscapes by Mister Gray. He runs after me, an arm outstretched in my direction, doing his best to catch me. I don't know what will happen when I am finally caught, but I keep running and running. His eyes have the same expression in my dreams. There is something relentless and utterly disturbing, as if they were metaphorically burning with the need to fulfill some want. And, horror of horrors, I might be the one to fulfill it. I'm probably overrating myself now, though. I do that a lot. It's a cheap thrill. Sometimes I pretend I'm the Avatar because I want to save the world and glow with Avatar energy and stuff.

Anyway, as I sigh to look up at the ceiling of my room, there is a slight sound from outside. The clock beside my table reads twenty minutes past five. I haven't been able to sleep, but I yawn and just then, the sound repeats itself. It's a two-count thump, and whoever is at the door is knocking with a forceful fist. Or it could be an outstretched palm, as if he or she is slapping the door. Throwing on a cardigan, I make my way out of bed and towards the front door. It's a bit unnerving, to be honest, as I walk towards the door and the thumping continues, and I become slightly frightened as the sounds suddenly stop- just as I undo the lock. There is a soft sound from outside as the lock clicks open. In the hazy late autumn night air, I cannot see clearly out and, against my better judgement, open the door to look outside.

There is nobody. From the four or five foot distance between the gate and the door, I can see everything a little more clearly but... it's absolutely empty. Suppressing another yawn, I retreat back inside- when I spy, through the window glass, a dark car on the other side of the street. I can make out no more than the outline, but I know that it's a car. I mean, the shape looks like a car's, but I could be wrong. My eyes aren't accustomed to the light yet. Nevertheless, it's unnerving and I lock the door again, walking briskly back to bed.

Sometime later, sounds from outside bring me to the door a second time. This time, it's less violent and the beat steady. But it's barely six and the nerve I lost just now takes its toll as I curse, "Look, I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you, but you-"

I stop suddenly as I notice the shocked face before mine. The face stares back, wide-eyed, and finally blinks slowly at me. In the mellowed moonlight, I start to flush in embarrassment. Good old paranoid me. Deer in the fecking headlights, huh?

"Joseph," I stutter and trail off, "uh-h-hello..."

Wait. Hang on a second right there. This is my house. No, it's Kate's house. And I stay here. Yes. I stay here. I am standing at the door of the house I legitimately stay in. There's quite some time until the sun rises and I am at my door because somebody knocked on it. Why am I cowering?

Joseph leans in and says slowly, "Are we alright, Annie? No troubles, right?"

My head moves in automatic response to his questions as I process my position, before I snap out and shake my head frantically. Pointing a finger, I demand, "What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Go to sleep!"

Joseph keeps staring at me and then chuckles, "You're not alright."

I maintain my pose and repeat my statement. Verbatim, yes. Because.

"If you insist on it... Goodnight, Annie," he replies with an unsure look and turns away. Suddenly, I remember that his father hasn't been very well and he was in Chicago for a whole week. I am also relieved to see someone I know long enough. Kate is just unbelievably beautiful, but she is the typical blonde sometimes. I can't talk to her about nightmares or it will end up on that silly paper of hers. Yes, I speak from experience. But Joseph- he will listen to me without a word and comfort me with a solution.

"Do-do you want to come in first," I call out, "Walking back to campus with your luggage will be hard at this time of the night."

He smiles and picks up his bags and I close the door behind us. As I place the bolt on again, I ask slowly, patting his forearm, "Is Uncle Nathan alright?"

Stiffening at the sound of the topic, he makes a small sound and nods. Good, I assure him, he'll be fine. A minute or two passes before he sighs heavily, "I'm sorry, Annie. Holding everything in in front of everybody was tough and I... I'm sorry about that."

I shake my head sympathetically and steer him towards the kitchen by the elbow, "That's what friends are for, Joseph. If you won't break in front of me, you can't anywhere. Now let's get some milk."

As he calms down and comes back to character, Joseph begins to study me carefully. I stare back at him, "What?"

"You look like you haven't been sleeping at all," he said slowly, "What is it, Annie? What's eating your head away?"

I grimace at the memory of the abominable building, the blonde drones and the prince of creepiness himself. Sighing, I spill it. All of it. And throughout the length of my rant, he listens intently- oblivious to Kate giggling away to the sounds of Glee in her room, to the fact even that he had just seen his father more or less rise from the dead two days ago. I really admire this aspect of Joseph. It takes quite a little patience and character to be so considerate. No, wait. You know what? I take that back. He is not considerate at all and he is definitely not sympathetic. Nuh uh. Because after I finish crying to him, he is unimpressed. I wait for a reaction but all he can say is, "Is that it, Annie?"

"What…", I frown. That was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, Mister. Because of this one man, I will make sure my children never marry overly rich people and preferably be self-employed. Okay, that was a hyperbole. But still.

"I don't know, Annie," he shrugs, "he seems alright. A little slimy, maybe... but I'm sure he's bearable."

"No," I slam a fist against the table surface and hiss, "He's not bearable. He is sleazy and he is psychologically disturbed. I saw his eyes. There is something wrong with him. I guarantee you that he is no less than a sociopath."

"A psychiatric diagnosis can't be done just from a person's expression. Even if there is something wrong with him, Annie," he rises from his seat, "You shouldn't be worried about it. It's not like he's going to turn up before you again, right? So let it pass."

I look down at the table and consider his words. He's right. Why am I having nightmares of a monster I will never meet again? Silly me... but the nagging feeling is still there and getting stronger and stronger. I know my hunch is not wrong- no. No, Joseph is right. I'm thinking too much of it. I'm being paranoid.

"Do I sleep on the sofa outside or the one inside?", Joseph asks from the kitchen entrance. He has turned on a light and in the stronger brightness, I realise as I turn to look at him how much of his exhaustion shows on his face. Well, I would've seen it a lot earlier if I hadn't been preoccupied by nightmares of being stalked by a predatory rich man. You see, reader and/or listener, I was being stupid. I know that now and I'm sorry. Now you let it pass. Excuse me while I make sleeping arrangements for Joseph.

Wednesday mornings are... well, I don't know how to describe them. I'm usually asleep then. Today's pretty loud, though- in large part due to Kate slamming my door at half past ten. In my half-awake state, I realise why I sleep in. Kate is whining about how I didn't do a good enough job and the lack of pictures to accompany her stupid article. The morning is evil. I stumble out of bed with a heavy groan. She is fuming, as I observe after opening the door. I don't understand my physical fascination with her at this point. She's whiny and bitches about something she pushed on me without specifying her expectations. What am I supposed to do for her stupid interview, sculpt Christian Gray's bust and plate it in gold so she can stick in her room back in her mansion after she graduates? Fuck this, I tell myself, all of it.

Joseph's also gone as well, I notice. He's left a Post-It note on my door to say he left at... seven. Well, that's nice. Now to fix this brat in front of me... I huff a little, pretending I am a dragon for just a minute, as she goes on and then gesture to her to stop, "Hang on, Kate. Listen to me. Keep your pants on. You want pictures for your article, right? We'll get them. No sweat. Call up that guy and fix another date with him."

She pouts and protests loudly, "Another date, Annie? Another date! That date will come another six months later! I need this by next week!"

"So... "I suggest slowly, "Ask him for a date next week."

She looks at me incredulously, unwilling to believe her ears, "Are you serious, Annie? He is an incredibly busy man-"

Bullshit. He was playing solitaire on his computer when I came in.

"-and he is a major benefactor of the college WE go to get an education-!"

Life is my only teacher, Kate. And we go to a no-name college, Kate. Have you seen the campus? Can you believe our professors and students we know stay there?

"We can't just ask him for a date next week just like that! Do you have any idea what you're saying?", she heaves. She'll get into a fit if she goes on, so I give up mentally correcting her. An idea forms in my head just then. Mister Sociopath was looking at me strangely, like I was his next target. Project Wallflower was not a success, but I might have a chance at salvation now. Put two and some other numbers together… I mull over the expected turn of events and how to achieve them and stop her again, "Give me his number. I'll get you your appointment."

She frowns, "You? But-how?"

I smile at her, trying my best to hide the disdain I feel towards my future plight, "Don't ask me anything for now, Kate. Just do as I say."

As I rush her away and into her own room, I steel myself for my upcoming ordeal. I must think the best of people. I must give people the benefit of doubt at least once. I must not be intimidated by naturally slimy talkers. I will be brave and, as Joseph put it, let it pass. Yes. I will do that. I clear my throat and shake my head to get into character as she writes out the number on a piece of paper. Before passing the paper to me, however, she pauses and looks at me, "You want me to dial it for you instead?"

Well, damn you, bitch. I might not have a phone- it's a way of protesting against the hypocrisy of the system- but I know how to use one! And to think I want to kiss you sometimes! Forcing my thoughts away from expression, I decline and take the paper instead, "That's fine, Kate, I can handle it."

Right. Here goes nothing. Let's get into character, Annie, let's do this.

"Hello," I stutter cautiously into the phone as my call is answered, "Uh... uh, this-this is- this is Anastasia Steele-uh-could I uh... could I talk to- ah- Mim-mister Gray, please?"

"Miss Steele- Ana, if I may," the voice on the other end answers, "What can I do for you?"

Oh my God…


End file.
